


Nothing Really Matters to Me

by Haydenn11



Series: Good Omens Greatest Hits [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Bored Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley being dramatic, Fluff, Funny, M/M, One Shot, Post-Canon, Song: Bohemian Rhapsody, Songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-23
Updated: 2020-12-23
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:28:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28250916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Haydenn11/pseuds/Haydenn11
Summary: 1. Bohemian Rhapsody.Crowley rolled his eyes at the thought and snapped his fingers. He had read recently that music also stimulated plant growth and had taken to playing some on days when he couldn’t work up the malice needed to torment the greenery. Bohemian Rhapsody floated into existence from an invisible source, it filled the room in glorious surround sound, taking advantage of the perfect acoustics.Is this the real life?Is this just fantasy?Caught in a landslide,No escape from reality.Crowley strutted around the plant room misting and glaring moodily as he went. But, in spite of his haughty demeanor, he felt his step fall in time with the music, his head bobbed rhythmically, and his lips mouthed the words of their own volition.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Good Omens Greatest Hits [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2069535
Comments: 2
Kudos: 33





	Nothing Really Matters to Me

**Author's Note:**

> Good Omens Greatest Hits being a collection of short, fun song fics written in the next six-eight weeks of my life in strict accordance, as will be shone, with the Queen Greatest Hits: Platinum Collection.
> 
> Basically I've decided to write a song fic for every song in the Platinum Collection of Queen's Greatest hits, which is the album(s) I have downloaded to my music library. I will write one fic per song, not including duplicates (the album contains some remixes and live versions). These will be mostly short and fluffy, but I anticipate some will get spicy, so pay attention to ratings and content warnings. These will be written primarily from Crowley's point of view, since it's Queen and he's Crowley, but I'm not making that a hard and fast rule. It is also important note works in this series are episodic. Each work is a stand alone fic and the series does not tell a continuous story. They do not follow a set sequence of events are are arranged in the order the songs appear on the album. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy! Thanks!

Crowley was bored. He’d been bored all day. In fact, he had been bored ever since he left Aziraphale’s bookshop the night before. Bored, he had come to realize, was how he spent all of his non-Aziraphale time these days. He would spend hours in his angel’s company feeling more content and warm than he thought possible, but as soon as Angel was out of sight, Crowley became miserably bored and restless until they saw each other again. 

Fortunately for Crowley, he wouldn’t have to be bored for much longer. He and Angel had plans. Aziraphale was bringing over takeout from some new place that he was sure to absolutely fawn over. Crowley knew he would not see what the fuss was about, but he would sample and smile and agree with whatever his angel’s verdict was. While they ate, they would watch an old movie. Aziraphale, for all his love of books and theater, had been woefully underexposed to film and ever since the world didn’t end, Crowley had been doing his best to thoroughly educate his friend. 

Crowley pushed himself up from where he slouched in his throne-like chair and grabbed his plant mister. He still had some time before Angel showed up, so he might as well do something productive. Crowley had found he was more reluctant to berate his plans since the world didn’t end. He still glared darkly and muttered curses and threats under his breath, but his heart wasn’t really into it. No doubt, Angel's increased presence in his apartment was having a  _ good  _ influence on him. 

Crowley rolled his eyes at the thought and snapped his fingers. He had read recently that music also stimulated plant growth and had taken to playing some on days when he couldn’t work up the malice needed to torment the greenery.  _ Bohemian Rhapsody _ floated into existence from an invisible source, it filled the room in glorious surround sound, taking advantage of the perfect acoustics. 

_ Is this the real life? _

_ Is this just fantasy? _

_ Caught in a landslide, _

_ No escape from reality. _

Crowley strutted around the plant room misting and glaring moodily as he went. But, in spite of his haughty demeanor, he felt his step fall in time with the music, his head bobbed rhythmically, and his lips mouthed the words of their own volition. 

He finished one lap around the plant room and started on a second. Casually, he picked up a trowel as he went by the shelf where he kept his gardening tools. He held it out in front of him like a microphone while he continued to mist plants with his other hand. 

“Mama. Just killed a man. Put a gun against his head, pull my trigger now he's dead.” He sang into the trowel in a not-bad-impersonation of Freddie Mercury. He snapped again and a large ficus teleported from where it sat in the corner to the middle of the room. Crowley serenaded the tree, “Mama, life had just begun, and now I’ve gone and thrown it all away.”

He made another lap around the plant room, singing to the tree with ever increasing emotion all the way through the ballad section, the plant mister having been abandoned some time around “goodbye, everybody.”

He turned the trowel from a makeshift microphone to a makeshift guitar and absolutely shredded the first solo before raising the trowel aloft like a conductor's baton and confronting the plants for the operatic section. The plants trembled, unsure what new torment their caretaker was going to enact upon them. 

“I see a little silhouetto of a man,” Crowley started, keeping time with his trowel. 

Although the plans were too terrified and lacked the necessary anatomy to respond, Crowley imagined they sang back to him, “Scaramouche, Scaramouche, will you do the Fandango?”

He continued to conduct his choir of flora, his trowel-baton twirling more flourished and emphatic with every beat. He sang Freddie’s parts with gusto and cued different sections of the plant room to respond to him. The plants relaxed a little when they realized they weren’t about to be dug up and discarded, so much so they swayed enthusiastically and in unison when Crowley cued them all in for “he’s just a poor boy from a poor family.” 

Crowley continued to sashay around the room and conduct his plants through the operatic section. The plants continued to respond, their movements larger and more intentional as the music crescendoed. By the time a handful of small ferns were vibrating along to the final “for meee,” Crowley was smoothly transforming the trowel from a baton back into a guitar.

He hopped around the room, hands furiously playing his trowel through the second guitar solo. As it ended, Crowley lunged forward and slid across the plant room floor on his knees. He bent over backwards, his attention once again focused on the large ficus in the middle of the room, trowel brought back up to his face, a microphone once more. 

“So you think you can stone and spit in my eye?” He sang to the tree. The tree trembled at the venom he put into the words. Crowley made his way back into a standing position in one fluid, almost serpentine movement that shouldn’t have been possible in his current corporation. “So you think you can love me and leave me to die?” 

Crowley danced around the tree, his trowel once more an electric guitar, his movements chaotic and frenzied. Sweat poured down his face and soaked his collar. Technically, Crowley didn’t need to sweat, but he allowed it now. He felt it added to the overall believability of his performance. Freddie Mercury had sweat during live performances and looked all the more glorious for it. 

Crowley let the trowel drop to the floor and once again addressed the tree. “Nothing really matters, anyone can see.” Crowley reached out and grabbed the tree’s thin trunk and twirled himself around it like a pole dancer, laying himself gracefully onto the floor at the end of the twirl. Starting at the ceiling, he sang, “Nothing really matters, to me.” 

The plants swayed gently through the last reverberating note and stilled as the silence crept back into the room. Crowley mused silently at the ceiling or a moment until a soft thump roused him. 

He turned his head toward the source of the noise and started when he saw Aziraphale standing in his office, next to a box of takeout he had clearly just set on the desk. He looked down at Crowley with an expression of commingled amusement and bewilderment.

“Nkg. Uh. Hi, angel. You’re early.” Crowley blustered. “How‒ uh, how long have you been here?”

An amused, slightly devious smile spread across Aziraphale’s face, the kind that told Crowley he was never going to live this down. 

“Long enough.”


End file.
